DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.
Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee,

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee,

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness

Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness,

That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers,

Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Has throbb’d at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over,

And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.
Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!

Shining through sorrow's stream,
Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy sons, with doubtful gleam,

Weep while they rise!
Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,

Till, like the rainbow's light,
Thy various tints unite,
And form, in Heaven's sight,

One arch of peace!

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle

Thy gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither’d,

And fond ones are flown,
Oh, who would inhabit

This bleak world alone ?

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

(6 1788 - d 1824).

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.
She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright,

Meet in her aspect and her eyes : Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.
The king was on his throne,

The satraps throng'd the hall;
A thousand bright lamps shone

O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,

In Judah deem'd divine –
Jehovah's vessels hold

The godless heathen's wine!
In that same hour and hall,

The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,

And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man; -

A solitary hand
Along the letters ran

And traced them like a wand

The monarch saw, and shook,

And bade no more rejoice; All bloodless wax'd his look

And tremulous his voice.
"Let the men of lore appear,

The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear,

Which mar our royal mirth."

Chaldea's seers are good,

But here they have no skill: And the unknown letters stood

Untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage,

They saw – but knew no more.

A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth ,
He heard the king's command,

He saw that writing's truth.
The lamps around were bright,

The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night, -

The morrow proved it true.

“Belshazzar's grave is made,

His kingdom pass'd away,
He in the balance weigh'd

Is light and worthless clay.
The shroud, his robe of state,

His canopy, the stone;
The Mede is at his gate,

The Persian on his throne!"

SONNET ON CHILLON.

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art,

For there thy habitation is the heart The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd –

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless bloom

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar – for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! – May none those marks efface!

For they appeal from tyranny to God.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

My hair is grey, but not with years,

Nor grew it white

In a single night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears:
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil,

But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,

And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd – forbidden fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffer'd chains and courted death;
That father perish'd at the stake